


Major Johns and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Journey

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:45:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Major Johns had left the military at the end of the war, and was now embarking on a promising new career with one of the more secretive branches of the government.  One of those known primarily by a three-letter acronym.  Yes, possibly THAT one.  One of his assignments was the recruitment of new agents, those with some reliable experience, and to that end he'd been given a list of individuals to contact and present the spiel.Considering the time he'd spent in London HQ during the war, it wasn't so surprising for him to recognize some of the names on that list his employer had handed him.  Names including Craig Garrison and Kevin Richards, the O'Donnell sisters, along with several others, team leaders, team members and others.Will he be able to parlay his knowledge of the individuals involved into a successful recruitment trip?  It seemed likely, in his opinion.  After all, he'd always considered himself to be an excellent judge of people.Perhaps, if he'd known what Craig Garrison had promised himself back then, that 'someday, I'll show you what I REALLY think about my guys, Major Johns', the dire mood Garrison had been in when he'd uttered those words, he might not have been quite so confident.





	Major Johns and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Journey

**Author's Note:**

> Hogan's Heroes characters, Hogan and many of the others, if by mention only.
> 
> With apologies to Judith Viorst, Major Johns' bad time was much worse than her Alexander's. If nothing else, it lasted much longer than just one day!
> 
>  
> 
> 'Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day' by Judith Viorst

Major Johns, now plain Mr. Willard Johns, was headed back to England, and he wasn't all that thrilled at the necessity. He hadn't particularly liked the place when he'd been stationed there, and he was hoping this would be a fairly short visit. However, his employers, that not-to-be-named organization spoken of only by a short acronym where he'd landed when he left the military, had given him a list of people to contact as potential recruits. Unfortunately, at least to Johns' mind, it held quite a few names that listed England as their 'probable current location'. 

For that reason, he had decided to tackle the other names first, starting in the US (really hoping he'd get enough takers to make his bosses change their minds about even going after the others). No such luck there, or not much; only three possible takers, and none of the ones marked with the little * indicating 'highly desirable'.

The one HE'D have thought would be on the list but wasn't, General Robert Hogan, HAD expressed interest directly, but as Johns' boss had explained to the excited Johns, the very fact that Hogan KNEW about this and went about approaching Johns in the first place, proved he wasn't what they were looking for. Well, along with a couple of other things. There seemed to be just a slight concern over 'temperment', though no one had shared any details with Johns, of course.

"And, anyway, Hogan has too high a profile. For all his position in the war was supposed to be kept quiet, just as his men were directed to keep their roles quiet, it seems an amazing number of people just keep whispering about it. It seems the General might be inclined toward pillow talk, or some variation thereof. And he just keeps showing up in the society pages, you know. No, what WE are looking for is a solid group of men (and a few women, possibly) who can get a job done and keep their mouths shut about it." 

His boss HAD added most of the names Hogan had suggested to Johns, though. "Now Hogan's team? This LeBeau, Olsen, Kinchloe, Newkirk, Carter? They just MIGHT be worth a try. The other names he came up with? Well, that Marya Parmanova? I don't think so. Russian female, had a reputation for being a devious bitch. Never really sure which side of the fence she was on. Not what we're looking for. Now, if you can locate that Underground leader, Rene, and the female agent Tiger, they just might prove their worth."

Johns had gone to bed with a headache that night. It seems his travel plans just kept expanding. The ones from Hogan's group that he'd thought might be in the States seemed not to be. Carter's cousins had nothing but a post office box for his location, same with Kinchloe's relatives. This Newkirk person was supposedly in Wales, LeBeau in France, Olsen maybe with his parents in Sweden, at least according to Hogan. The Underground leader and French agent were supposedly both in Paris.

He'd had a good breakfast, three cups of coffee, and grimly set about making travel arrangements. Australia, the furthest destination, would be tackled first. For some reason, the list had insisted on that, something about 'seasonal weather patterns' and he had no choice but to comply. He just hoped it was worth the extremely long travel time involved.

 

Several days later:

So far the trip wasn't going all that well. First that long plane ride to Australia to interview Micah Davis, former Team Leader, Special Forces, previously based out of England. Well, the long plane ride to Sydney, with its multiple stops and layovers and plane changes, then another long plane ride in a tiny noisemaker-with-wings that HE wouldn't dignify by calling an airplane. 

And for what? To meet with someone who now ran a drinking establishment called 'The Hungry Croc' in the middle of a far-flung community of society's rejects and billing himself as the inventor and sole maker of 'Wombat Stomper', a local beverage of dubious ingredients by the smell of it and an absurdly high alcohol content. The man seemed to have gone totally native. If what his organization was looking for was 'inconspicuous', THIS man was NOT what they had in mind! Still, orders were orders, and he had his.

The hesitant presentation of an offer of employment by the finicky Johns to the unshaven and grizzled proprietor of the rowdy bar was greeted by a scowl, a snarl, and a few sentences Johns hadn't a clue what they meant, but that gesture he'd been given and the gnarled hand at the back of his shirt, and the size thirteen shoe planted on his backside had him limping quickly back to the small plane where the pilot had been waiting patiently. The roar of approval from the bar's patrons thundered in his ears at his abrupt departure through those swinging wooden doors.

Well, Paddy Meegan hadn't THOUGHT that visit would take all that long! Micah was a long-time drinking mate, and he had been quite outspoken about his considered opinion of those he'd reported to during the war! Only thing surprising was that Davis hadn't fed the bloody wanker to that pet croc he kept in the pond out back - she had to be a good twelve feet long by now, and was always hungry. Really kept the breakage at the bar down, though, knowing Sweetie Pie was just a few feet away, ready to come the minute 'Daddy' called her for a snack! Just watching the croc down a live chicken was an experience you'd never forget!

For sheer amusement's sake, Meegan had spent the return journey shouting out the details about Sweetie Pie, her description, her history, her habits, the abhorrent and surely apocryphal suspicions about Davis' relationship with Sweetie Pie. 

Johns spent the next day in Sydney, getting his nerves back in order before he headed out to France. 

Well, Paris had been interesting, of course; he'd not been there except that once, during the war, hardly a circumstance for sightseeing, and one always heard so much about the City of Lights. 

He flushed a little remembering that seductive voice, the sultry expression and pouting lips of the foreign woman in the fur hat, the fur coat, who'd hung on his arm and insisted he buy her a drink. He wouldn't have minded running into her again, though he DID remember Major Richards and his discreet cautionary advice about such women. But no such luck, and he turned his mind back to the task at hand.

But no matter which questions he asked, he found no solid information of a former Underground operative who'd gone by the name of Rene, or maybe Reynard, which he was told had meant 'fox, or maybe Rascal, or of a woman known as Tiger. Well, such foolish names these operatives had taken upon themselves, it was hardly surprising; you'd think they could have come up with something a little more dignified! Probably more than a little embarrassed to admit it now, even if it HAD been them. Certainly HE'D never been inclined to call himself by anything other than his own solid, respectable name!

There were rumors, of course, and based on the most prevalent one, he'd hesitantly approached a certain Monsieur Michel Brevard, someone with his foot firmly on the rising political ladder, feeling him out as to his activities during the war. 

Unfortunately, Johns had reached for his identification a bit too quickly, and the Monsieur's very lovely wife had him flat on his back, one arm in a backwards twist, with a gun at his temple before he could complete the move. 

"Jeanne seems to dislike the idea, monsieur, as do I. And invoking the name of Colonel Hogan does not sweeten the notion, you should be aware. His grand opinion of himself is not universally shared, you see."

After Johns had departed, the man who had once called himself Rene or Rascal, had delivered a warm hug to his wife, Jeanne, who had once been known as Marie or Tiger. "You DO still have all the right moves, cherie!"

His search for one 'Louis LeBeau, team member of Colonel Hogan' met with only limited success. Yes, he had found the man's trail in Paris, but it ended in only a shrug and a casual, "but yes, he was here, for a time. But he departed. No, we have no idea where he went." 

His informant saw no need to give any of the details of that very intrigant, very romantic affair of the heart; frankly, he didn't see any of the details were any of the business of this rather rude American, and doubted the stiff man would appreciate the whole air of l'amour that hung about the story. Ooh la la! His countryman and the TWO so desirable, so intense women! No, the American would NEVER understand!

A side visit led him to the home of Colin Olsen's parents, newly relocated in the small Scandavian country Mr. Olsen had originally immigrated from many years prior. Olsen's parents claimed the young man was dead, and slammed the door in his face without further explanation.

Wales had been a disappointment, his credentials not buying him any respect, and the idea of a meeting had been firmly rejected by one Peter Newkirk, and even more firmly discouraged by a few unknown but rather threatening individuals.

Scotland had been next, and Jimmy Longuire and Len Briggs weren't any too eager to speak with him either, nor had been 'Scotty' Harris and Lee Jenner, all ex-Special Forces team members. 

At least Longuire and Briggs had been reasonably civil about it, the meeting and their refusal. Harris and Jenner, they'd been rather outspoken in their opinion of organizations that went around calling themselves by a group of letters, and the men who followed their bidding, and about American officers in general. Actually, he hadn't liked the look in Harris' eyes one little bit, and quickly took his leave. 

He'd had hopes of Alex Ainsley, having formed a fairly good opinion of the former team leader from observing him and his team during their days together at London HQ. Their meeting had gone better than most of the others; although no promises were made, Ainsley HAD suggested they discuss it in more detail over dinner and drinks at the local pub. Johns DID wonder at the rather odd expression on the man's face when Johns, after perhaps having a drink or two too many in more congenial company than he'd been gifted with recently, revealed the remaining names of people he wanted to contact. 

"Um, well, I doubt you'll get too far with any of those, you know. All settled in rather nicely, is what I've heard. And Garrison's the only one, along with Actor, his SIC, who perhaps keeps his hand in, to even a mild degree, but even they . . . Well, would probably save you some mileage just to scratch both of them off. Along with Richards, and the women, of course - the O'Donnell women, Leeds and Duvalle too. Just can't see any of them working for any of the 'shadows', even your precious CIA. I presume that IS who you're carrying the bucket for."

Johns had pokered up a bit; after all he had a job to do and didn't appreciate being urged to ignore his duties! And he really didn't think that comment about his employer was one to be making in a public place, considering the amused contempt in Ainsley's face; had to make him wonder what that phrase really meant, what was supposed to be IN that 'bucket'! He never HAD understood English colloquialisms, and they seemed to have such a wide variety of them! He realized Ainsley was getting ready to depart, but anything he had to say was overridden by the casual, but somehow threatening words he heard next.

"Well, it's your time to waste, I suppose. Oh, me? No, Johns, I've decided it's not really for me. If I ever decide to be a 'spook', I'll give MI6 a jingle; never was all that impressed with your side of the intel, you know. By the by, do the chaps over at Vauxhall KNOW you're recruiting on their turf?? Might get their panties in a twist over that, you know. Maybe I'll give you a mention IF I decide to give them a call. Wouldn't be surprised if they didn't decided to have a little chat of their own; a bit territorial they are, at least so I've heard."

And on that cheery note, he was up and gone. Somehow Johns, gap-jawed, had ended up sitting alone, and then being presented with the bill for two dinners and an astonishing number of drinks. A sputtered demand for an explanation got just a uncaring shrug of the hotelier's shoulders, "your tablemate said you ordered a round on the house, Yank. Just be thankful it's a light crowd tonight. Now, you gonna pay up or do I have to call my brother? Head of the local Watch, he is, you know."

Johns had spent the night sulking, fingering his much lighter wallet, but decided to make a call on the two women listed at a local address - Leeds and Duvalle - the following day. He'd probably look up Richards, who he remembered quite well, next, then the two O'Donnell women if he could get a better lead on their whereabouts. The list hadn't been specific, just a note that Richards might have a clue there. Well, Leeds and Duvalle might also; seems those of the Special Forces/Special Ops mold tended to keep in touch. Same sort of mind set, as he remembered; stubborn, rebellious, far too independent, the whole lot of them. He rather wondered if his employers knew the kind of riff-raff that had been included on that list.

He knew the moment he walked four paces through the door of that specialty shop that this was a wasted trip, no, even more than that, a very bad idea. He hadn't recognized the names from the list, they just hadn't rung a bell - Diane Leeds and Marina Duvalle. 

Now, as he approached the desk to the side, the sight of the raven haired woman in the small wheeled chair brought back the memories - a mission gone bad, one partner frantic over the loss of another, the loud confrontation, the very sensible executive decision he'd made being roundly rejected. Later, the discomfort of finding out his instructions had been ignored, a thoroughly mad though successful rescue put into play, and him getting a slight 'tsk, tsk' in his file, one that it took some careful handling to get removed again. 

He'd never seen either of the women again; Leeds had been put on the Inactive List due to her injuries and vanished into the grey fog of obscurity where all no-longer-capable agents vanished, and Duvalle seemed to have disappeared right along with her. There had been some flap about that, but it had died down when the next excitement took its place.

He gulped and started to turn and go, but found somehow there was someone standing behind him. The strawberry blonde, Marina Duvalle, had had the most charming smile, he remembered, but there was no evidence of that smile now. 

"You are in the wrong place, Major Johns," Diane Leeds told him icily, only to be overridden by an almost whispered, "no, no, Diane my love, perhaps he isn't. Perhaps he's come to have a nice little chat about the old days? Perhaps to offer a little sympathy? Perhaps to ask you to share with him some of what you went through? Perhaps to ask us to help him to understand it all much better, on a more personal level?"

It was a simple statement, but one that held more menace than a stream of curses could have held. Whatever the tool was the blonde held in her hand, it was metal, it was sharp and oddly curved at the tip, and her knuckles were white with the grip she had on it.

"Now, Major, let's just put the 'Closed' sign in the window and go off to our private quarters, shall we? We can have us a perfectly lovely little time reminiscing over the old days." Now there WAS a smile, but it couldn't have been called charming. Chillingly lethal, yes, that it COULD have been called.

By then she was talking to the air, a slightly frantic Mr. Johns having dodged around her and headed out the door at a run, leaving behind only the tinkle of the bell in his wake.

There was silence for a moment, then Diane inhaled and shook her head briskly. "So, Marina, do you think that seam presser is going to do the job for those curves?"

Marina looked down at the instrument in her hands, slowly loosening her harsh grip. "Seems likely; might still need the block for the heavier denim, but for most fabrics, this should do the trick right enough." 

The two women specialized in designing and delivering attractive and yet functional clothing especially for those who had suffered some injury or debilitation that made the donning and wearing of off-the-rack garments unwieldy. 

They'd done it at first for Diane, with the guidance of Coura O'Donnell, but it wasn't long before the apparent need for such clothes struck them as an ideal opportunity. A loan from a not-to-be-named source, the rental of a small storefront cum workroom cum apartment at an absurdly low price through the auspices of one now, despite all reason, considered a Friend, and they were now becoming the go-to source for such specialty items. 

An arrangement with a Friend of a Friend in Wales gave them a source for prosthetics far better designed than most that were on the market, and that only increased the traffic flow through their small, rather unique establishment. 

Next month they would be issuing their first catalogue of items available to be ordered, all made especially to suit the ultimate owners' special needs. It would be the forerunner of such catalogues, eventually expanding to cover several countries, including the United States.

Yes, the reappearance of the former Major Johns had been an unpleasant reminder of the past, but by the time evening came and they were preparing their evening meal, they'd firmly placed him back in the past where he belonged. They would focus on the present and on the future, each other and their life together, the valuable service they could provide to others - the important things.

 

Willard Johns was convinced this was the worst experience he'd ever had, and he was getting more than a little worried about how his superiors were going to take his lack of success. He'd already spent an alarming amount of money, with woeful results. 

Still, he had high hopes of Kevin Richards. Yes, the man had shown a surprising level of sentimentality during the war, especially the later years, rather unprofessional in Johns' opinion, but still, he HAD been a capable officer, both in the field and behind a desk. 

And there was the chance the man knew the whereabouts of the two O'Donnell women. He certainly hadn't had the opportunity or the inclination to bring up the subject with Leeds or Duvalle!

While HE wouldn't want to work with either of the redheads, especially the one code named The Dragon, and less officially as The Ice Queen, well, they HAD been remarkably skilled. He could certainly see his organization making good use of them. Yes, signing those two up would surely redeem himself in the eyes of his employers.

 

After a long drive, he'd pulled up to the imposing manor house and stepped out. Now this was something he wasn't expecting; the impression, not of grandeur so much as of age and stability, was rather daunting. The clatter of horses' hooves brought his attention away from the pillared portico to the large beasts bearing down on him. He wasn't surprised to see Kevin Richards atop the powerful looking grey horse, but to see the two redheaded women on the tall chestnut mares, that was startling. He'd thought to maybe learn the whereabouts of the O'Donnell women, but not to find them here.

Later, over the tea cups, he would find he was only partly right. Ciena O'Donnell was one of the two, yes; well, now Ciena Richards, it would appear, and that was certainly a shock! But the other was not Meghada, not The Dragon, but a younger sister by the name of Coura. He was sure he'd never met her, but there was such an amused and knowing recognition in her eyes that it made him very nervous. Though, when he'd asked about Meghada, they'd been forthcoming, no hesitation in giving him her direction. 

"Brandonshire, The Cottages. Just ask at the pub; they'll direct you on, or if not that, will call her and let you know if she's willing to see you," Coura had offered with an open smile. "Might be one or the other, maybe not. I must warn you to tread easily; I'm afraid her temper isn't quite as sweet as when you knew her; rather iffy at times, in fact." 

Remembering all he did about The Dragon, The Ice Queen, that 'sweet' temper of hers, that was enough to send a chill straight through him. 

He'd hesitated to broach the job offer with Coura present, but Kevin Richards had been firmly of the opinion, "whatever you have to say to Ciena and myself, Coura can most certainly hear."

They'd listened, he'd received a polite but quite firm refusal from both. He hadn't pressed.

Ciena had asked, as he was leaving, "and are you intending to make the same proposal to our sister, Mr. Johns?"

"Yes, and I am quite hopeful she will give it due consideration. And I understand Craig Garrison is still in Brandonshire, he and his former second in command. Perhaps I'll see them as well, talk over old times."

He didn't mention the identical offers he intended to make the former Lieutenant Garrison or his second in command. Odd that was where they were both shown as probably residing, the same village as The Dragon. But that was where they all stayed during the war, so perhaps that made some sense, though he didn't understand why Garrison, at least, hadn't gone back to the States. And he would have thought the sophisticated con artist would have headed for one of the major cities of the world, there to continue his so-called career of fleecing the rich and foolish.

He saw the quick exchange of glances between the three standing there, though he couldn't interpret just what that might mean. 

"Hmmm. Well, good luck with that, Mr. Johns, all of it. Oh, your company's medical plan; is it a good one? It does cover accidents that occur during travel overseas, doesn't it??" the younger woman offered.

Somehow the smiles on all three of those faces sent a chill up and down his spine once again. Yes, he DID remember Meghada O'Donnell, far too well. 

Well, at least he wouldn't have to deal with that bunch of wild card cons of Garrison's, just Garrison himself and Actor, and Johns remembered the latter as having been quite a civilized sort of person for a criminal. And Garrison, well, the man had been an officer, for heaven's sake!

He stayed in London for the next twenty-four hours, writing up the reports, wincing more than a little at the tally of refusals to acceptances. And of the three acceptances, only one had been a almost-firm 'yes', the other two were more of a 'maybe, we'll think about it' nature.

Well, however it turned out, it looked like he at least only had one more bit of traveling to do, with all three of his potential candidates in the same location. Now, just to polish up his approach and have at it.

 

"WHO??! He's WHAT??! Are you sure??" Meghada was sputtering with laughter when they came into the room. They passed through, giving her a curious look, intent on getting out of their grimy clothes, into a shower and cleaned up, but knew they'd head right back, all of them, to find out about that phone call. It had to be good from the look on her face.

She was setting out the coffee cups, the cream, the fresh baked rolls when they drifted back into the kitchen, one by one. When the last one arrived, she added the last touches, homemade jam, fresh-churned butter, cream cheese, sliced tomatoes and onion, and a big platter of bacon, and sat down with them. Sweet or savory, it was their choice, but no one would go hungry at her table, not if she had anything to say about it.

"Okay, you have to hear this! It seems we are due for a visitor! Do you remember Major Johns, sometimes-liaison for the Brass??!"

"Johns??! That stick-up-his-butt sorry excuse for a . . . . ". 

"Aw, Casino, come on! Tell us 'ow you really feel, ei?" Goniff grinned at the safecracker, who was doing a good amount of sputtering of his own.

"Meghada? Do we know WHY he's coming here?" Craig Garrison was still tugging on a clean shirt and rolling back the cuffs, leaving both cuffs and the top couple of buttons of the shirt undone. He'd become a little more relaxed about such things in the recent months, Meghada was pleased to note, leaving the stricter military officer behind a little more each day. Oh, that Garrison was still there, still available if needed, (and he sometimes was), but not the one most on view anymore.

"Well, from what Kevin says, he's recruiting, probably CIA or one of the alphabet offshoots. He's already approached Kevin and Ciena and Ainsley, and probably others. Who knows who else is on his 'candidate list', but from Kevin's understanding, you are, Craig, and you too, Actor. Oh, and me, of course."

"And not us?? I think I got my feelings hurt!! Shit, where's the love?" Casino snarked. 

"Yeah, well, Pappy, you'll get over it. Course, I know it's hard, seeing as how close you two were back then," Chief grinned. He did that much more these days, and Meghada and the others were more than a little pleased at the sight. 

In fact, pretty much everyone at The Cottages was mellowing a little, even The Dragon herself. Of course, a more mellow Dragon is still a Dragon capable of shooting flames around your ears, or gutting you with her claws, but still . . .

Goniff looked at Garrison, a little leary now. He'd just gotten to where he felt comfortable that Craig wasn't going to get a wild hair and head off for a little more excitement than they, the Cottages, the village and the business could provide. 

Garrison read that look easily enough, grinned over at the Englishman, reassuringly. "No, I have no desire to become one of the 'shadow men', Goniff. I'm not going anywhere." 

Surprisingly enough, Garrison found their lives together, personal and professional, provided quite enough excitement to satisfy him. In fact, having to haul Goniff and Casino out of that last jam had provided MORE than enough excitement to suit him, a point he'd made quite clear once they got back home. And no matter how much they'd protested that it had NOT been their fault this time, somehow, he just couldn't imagine anyone ELSE getting in that predicament! 

He turned to his former SIC. "How about you, Actor? You find the idea appealing?" It was a rhetorical question; he knew pretty much how the conman felt about running in someone else's string. He might have become accepting with Garrison, with the team, but other than that, he was just too independent for organizational work.

Actor gave a genteel snort. "I not only do not find the idea appealing, Craig, I find the idea of having any dealings with that organization, or for that matter, ANY organization that would employ Major Johns, highly distasteful. The man is an idiot. An educated idiot, but an idiot nevertheless."

"Meghada, should I ask?" looking over at the redhead with a sly smile.

"Ask me what's for dinner, ask me about the three new chapters I've finished on the book and the odd direction it seems to be taking, ask me whether I intend to plant more kale and sugar peas this year than I did last - ask me anything that you might not know the answer to, but that? As you should well know, any such activities I might get involved in will be either for the Clan or the business and not for anyone else! My tolerance for idiots seems to have diminished almost to the disappearing mark!" 

Well, her tolerance in that area had never been one of her strong points in the first place, as everyone took a great deal of pleasure in pointing out, to the general hilarity of all.

Later that night, leaning against the headboard of that big bed that was so out of proportion to the size of the room, brushing out her hair, Meghada brought up the subject again. 

"Craig, there was a certain look in your eye at the mention of Major Johns, one I am more accustomed to seeing in Goniff or maybe Casino. Should I ask?"

Goniff nodded, shucking out of his daytime clothes and joining her, stopping along the way to peer up into Garrison's eyes with amused speculation, agreed. 

"Noticed that myself, I did. Got that same narrowing of the eyes 'e used to get w'en 'e was planning a job. That look that told you we were 'eading into action of some sort, probly gonna blow something sky 'igh. Wanna tell us w'at's on your mind?"

A slow smile came to Craig's face as he made his way over to sit on the side of the bed. 

"Just thinking about a promise I made to myself once concerning Major Johns. This just might be the opportunity to fulfill that promise."

He didn't say anything more, not then, not sure he wanted to pull Goniff into the middle. That would be bad enough, but if HE got involved, he'd get Casino and probably the others involved, and Lord knows how that would end up!!! And Meghada??! That just made him shudder!

"Well, hopefully all they are using the man for is recruiting. Coura says he wasn't overly adept on that mission she ran with all of you, said Marya rolled him up with just a smile and a wiggle," Meghada reminded them as she used a wiggle of her own to slide out of the robe she'd been wearing, dropping it and the hairbrush on the chair pulled up alongside the far side of the bed.

That got a laugh of agreement from both of them, but as Craig reminded her, "from what I could see, Marya could have rolled just about anyone up that way!"

"Yes, well, she does have a way about her!" Meghada admitted. 

"Got to admit, luv," Goniff said appreciatively, running his admiring hand over her bare curves, "you've quite a knack for that yourself," and the grin on Craig's face told her Goniff wasn't the only one who felt that way. Well, fair enough; the two of them had their own pleasing ways, and she'd not trade them or their lives together for any other.

Of course, that little bit of appreciation led to a great deal of mutual gestures of admiration once Goniff had to assuage the teasing pout off Craig's face with a few strokes along HIS curves. "Yes, you 'ave a way about you too, Craig; didn't know you needed any special petting to remind you of that. Course, always 'appy to oblige if you do," smirking at the green-eyed blond stretched out so temptingly within reach.

It was a long time later before Craig Garrison's mind returned to the issue of Major Johns. Once he'd promised himself that someday he'd not hold his tongue, would let the arrogant and demeaning Major Johns know exactly how he felt about the men on his team. Maybe that had been born of anger and frustration, but he still found it a worthy thought. And if the opportunity presented itself, this time he didn't have an inclination to hold back. 

And, somewhat reluctantly, he decided he really WOULD have to take the others into his confidence; otherwise this could head off into directions he would prefer to avoid. His guys hadn't changed all THAT much, and Meghada?? Perhaps a little on the surface, but not where it counted. 

Now that he thought about it, including them brought the possibilities to a whole new level, and that grin on his face was more like Goniff than he would ever know. 

{"In fact, I wonder if we mightn't take this in a whole different direction anyway, just like Meghada says her new book seems to be doing. I wonder if she can duplicate that outfit she wore up in Scotland, at Logan's castle. Maybe not exactly, but something close. Yes, that would be interesting."}

When he discussed his idea with the whole crew at breakfast, Meghada had smiled a totally wicked smile. 

"Well, there IS this little tale from the time of Medara ru Dragan you might find of interest."

Her voice lapsed into the classic story-telling cadence, and it turns out they found it of GREAT interest, the story of Medara ru Dragan and the envoy from the Empress of Teshan.

 

Willard Johns pulled up to the pub in Brandonshire, taking a moment to remember his last visit here. It hadn't been a particularly enjoyable one; but then, very little connected to Garrison, his men, The Dragon had been particularly enjoyable. 

If it had been left up to him, especially after that visit to Kevin Richards, he never would have included any of them on the list he carried in his pocket, but it hadn't been up to him. And, in thinking it over, it was more likely that these two men would be the more likely ones to take him up on the offer of employment. Garrison had always been one to be in the thick of things; he probably could have gone up a couple of ranks if he hadn't been saddled with that disreputable team of his. And his S.I.C. had been extremely competent. Johns remembered they'd seemed to work well together, and that made sense, especially if they'd both decided to end up living this close to each other after the war.

The man behind the bar had heard him out, but shook his head firmly at the idea of directing Johns to The Cottages where the O'Donnell woman supposedly lived. 

"Doubt she'd much like that, and I for one aint stupid enough to get on her wrong side. Got used to breathing, you know; not so ready to stop anytime soon, specially just to accommodate some stray Yank. You have yourself a seat, I'll make a call, see what she has to say on the subject."

Well, that was rather ominous! Johns stopped him before Lou's hand reached the phone. "Well, what about Craig Garrison? Or a man known as Actor? I also wanted to see them." Perhaps he'd just skip seeing the O'Donnell woman after all.

That got him a measuring look, and a shrug and a slow nod. "It's your funeral. I'll see what I can do. Sit, over there. I'll put out the closed sign, keep the locals away. They DO agree to meet with you, don't want anyone else getting . . . Well, it's just best to keep it between you and them, right?" 

There was something about the way that was worded that made Johns more than a little uneasy. It was almost as if the bartender was expecting violence during what Johns intended only as a quiet conversation.

It wasn't long. "You wait. They'll be here. You want a drink?" Lou offered, almost solicitious now.

Johns looked at him, then glanced at his watch. "Ah, no. It's a little early for me. Perhaps a cup of coffee." Well, it was only nine in the morning, after all.

Lou shrugged, "your call. A little early by some's way of thinking, a little late by others. Some might even call it TOO late. Thought you might want something to kinda brace yourself, but, like I said, your call." {"Well, at least he didn't say it was 'your funeral' again!"}

That the bartender then busied himself removing all but one of the other chairs and tables back out of the way, leaving Johns just at that one small table, and a big round one with several chairs. That seemed a little odd, til he saw the bartender glancing at the shelves behind him, look back at Johns, and the doorway, then start to take the bottles and glasses off those shelves and stowing them under the counter.

{"Almost as if he were preparing for the outbreak of a bar fight! How ridiculous!"} sipping at the strong coffee he'd been poured.

They poured in through the door like a band of gunslingers in a Western movie, Johns would later tell himself, slow, steady, dangerous. He'd probably never get that picture out of his mind.

The woman was in the point position, red hair gathered in a long braid over one shoulder, tied off with a eagle feather at the end. Her dark brown leather tunic left almost as much bare as it covered, and the matching leather pants were tight and closed at the sides with criss-crossed red ties, still with quite a bit of skin showing through. Knee high moccasins were bound to her calves with similar ties. Bronze armbands encircled her biceps, one with what looked like a length of braided hair dangling from it. {"Surely not a SCALP??!"} A knife sheath wrapped her right forearm, another blade graced her hip. The leather collar at her throat was ornamented at one side with links of bronze chain and a large claw. He would have thought she looked ridiculous, like something out of some comic book, except that she DIDN'T look ridiculous; she looked damned scary! And were her eyes glittering???!

He dragged his eyes away from her and realized belatedly that he wasn't just meeting Garrison and Actor, but the whole damned team, but a team like he'd never seen them before. Their clothes were similar, their stance much the same. Even Garrison was in those same tight dark jeans, shirts tucked in firmly but unbuttoned almost to the waist, narrowly-folded bandanas at their throat, tied at the side. Well, except for the Indian, Chief. He wore moccasins and leather pants with fringe down the sides, nothing above the waist, his chest shockingly bare, showing off that rawhide thong hanging low in the center, claws of various sorts attached at equal intervals. His forearm also wore a knife sheath, and another knife fitted into a sheath at the side of his right thigh. 

They looked, well, deadly, every last one of them; deadly, that was the only word Johns could come up with. Even that pickpocket, the one Johns had always considered an amiable if talented fool. Now with his icy cold blue eyes and wide slash of a mouth downturned at the corners, he looked like someone you'd not want to meet in a dark alley, perhaps even on a crowded street at high noon. {"He looks like he could slit your throat without turning a hair!"}

They formed a wedge, Meghada at the point, Garrison and Goniff one step back and slightly to either side of her, Casino, Chief and Actor spread out behind them, none blocking his view of the others.

Johns waited for Garrison to speak, for ANYONE to speak, but no one did. Finally he cleared his throat and started, "well, I wasn't expecting to see all of you today.". His words died as the woman tilted her head sharply, with a jerk, rather as if she were a bird of prey surveying a mouse.

He started again. "Lieutenant, uh, Mr. Garrison, I was wondering if I might have a word with you, and perhaps Actor. Alone." 

Johns had totally given up on the notion of having a word, of any kind, with The Dragon. He understood much more clearly now the bartender's reluctance to annoy the woman.

He was more than surprised to see both men look at the woman, almost as if asking her permission. If that was surprising, it was nothing to the increasingly haughty look on her face as SHE responded.

"You wish to speak with my Warrior, my Poet? For what purpose?"

Somehow he found himself answering her, though he'd not really had that intention. "I have a proposition for them, a job offer."

Somehow that cold amusement on the redhead's face, that slow smile didn't reassure him in the least. But she DID turn to Garrison with an archly inquiring look. 

"And what say you of this 'proposition', my Warrior? Do you wish to see if there is someplace you prefer to be other than at my right hand?" 

"There is NOWHERE I wish to be other than at your right hand, Mistress," Garrison intoned in a fervent voice, his green eyes burning into hers, turning his head to glare ferociously at Johns, leaving Johns with his mouth open.

She turned her head back to bring the tall Italian into view. "And you, my Poet? What about you?" 

"I live to serve you, Mistress," Actor replied, somehow keeping a solemn face no matter how much he was wanting to laugh at the look on Johns' face.

The woman looked at each of the others then.

"And you, my Blade? You, my Hard Fist? Or you, my Shaman, my Priest? Do you wish to hear any offers from Major Johns?" looking at Goniff, then at Casino, and finally at Chief.

Snorts of disgust and anger told the story there, and she turned her head to look at Johns with cool composure.

"It would appear there is no interest in your 'offers', Major Johns. But, since you have traveled this far, perhaps I will indulge you for the moment. Please, be my guest. Sit, speak with my Warrior, my Poet. Let their ears hear your words, let their words reach yours in return," and she turned and stalked away to sit at the round table, the others clustering around her. 

Garrison and Actor came forward, sat at the table opposite Willard Johns.

"You wanted to talk, so talk," and that voice was much more like the Garrison Johns remembered, and he relaxed just a little. Actor said nothing.

So Willard Johns made the presentation, which didn't sound nearly as appealing even to his own ears as it had before. Maybe it was the nervousness with which he recounted it, or the anxious way he kept letting his eyes move back to that big table, where the woman and the three men were working their way through a bottle of liquor. He really didn't like that predatory smile on her face when she looked his way, or the threatening looks on the faces of the men seated around her.

"So, you see, it would be right up your alley, Garrison, and yours too, Actor," he finished, not with any real hope of getting an affirmative answer, but just to hurry and get this over with so he could make his escape, get back to where things made sense again.

The slow smile that crossed Craig Garrison's face was chilling, as was his low voice, "and you really think I would take you up on this 'offer'? After the price I paid to get where I am?"

Johns cleared his throat, "I'm not sure I understand, Garrison. Price?? To get where you are? Where ARE you??" Yes, it wouldn't take much more and he'd be rolled up like a piece of old carpet, that much was obvious.

"Do you think The Dragon takes just ANYONE as her Warrior? No, I had to sacrifice for that, give up the most important thing in my life for that role. I had to bring her, GIVE her what I cherished most, for that honor."

Johns now knew he was in the middle of a nightmare. Men, soldiers, just didn't go around talking like that, not in this century; it was far too bizarre!

He cleared his throat again. "You mean your military career?"

Garrison just looked at him as if he were more than a little stupid. "My military career? That meant little enough in comparison, not to me, certainly not to her. No, I brought her, I GAVE her my men. They were the most important things in my life. Except for her, they still are. You never understood that, did you, Johns? To you they were of little value, expendable. To me? To me they were far more; in the end, to me they were everything. The only sacrifice big enough to be worthy."

Johns's bewildered eyes, wide with shock and disbelief went to Actor. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

Actor decided it was time to deal the final blow. "He gave us to her, yes. But we were not unwilling, none of us. He was our leader; we were his to command. That has not changed so very much. It is just that we, ALL of us, have our role at HER side. None of us would exchange that, any of that. What we have is offered to only a rare few, and we know how valuable that is, what we have been given to possess."

Yes, he realized that was a little jumbled, but it sounded as impressive as hell, especially spoken in his haughtiest voice and with his 'snootiest' expression on his face. If the other guys weren't laughing in their drinks, surely it was only because they were making a supreme effort. He noted Lou had left the room at the end of that speech, probably because the bartender WASN'T sure he could keep from breaking down in hysterics.

Johns wasn't sure what he said in his departure; he wasn't sure it mattered, since he'd obviously been dismissed. He drove away, headed toward London, then back to Washington, wondering just how the hell he was supposed to write THAT up! 

When he looked at his tally later, once he got the final answers from those back in the States, he could only stare, comparing the dollars he'd spent to fly around the world, meals, hotels, all to recruit a total of zero new agents. He had a feeling he would need to be looking for a new job very soon.

 

Behind, at the bar, Lou had returned and was pulling down the good stuff, filling glasses, watching the grins and the outright laughs, hearing the sharp repartee. As he poured out a measure into Actor's glass, he had to admit something.

"You know, I never quite thought of it like that, Actor, but once you both explained, I could see it all, plain as day," nodding in agreement. "Now it all makes perfect sense."

He didn't notice Actor's startled look, or the wry grins forming on the other men's faces as they admitted there had been rather more truth to that high-flown declaration than perhaps the conman had thought at the time. 

Of course, any remaining seriousness flew right out the window when Goniff emptied his glass and reached for the bottle to pour out another round for everyone, making a firm declaration, "think you need to use all that in one a your books, 'Gaida. Ruddy impressive, it was! AND, I think you need to wear that outfit more often. Gets me all 'ot and twitchy, you know?", leering at her suggestively.

"Hell, Goniff. Everything about her gets you all hot and twitchy," Casino snorted, the others laughed, and the pickpocket shrugged and grinned. When Casino was right, he was right. Course, Craig in that unbuttoned shirt and those tight jeans and that bandana tied at his throat, and that fire in his brilliant green eyes had done pretty much the same. Yes, looked like another lovely night in the making!

 

Willard Johns looked up to see the couple looking over that new model Plymouth that had just come in. Wearily he got to his feet; this job at his father-in-law's car dealership wasn't what he'd intended when he left the military. Still, considering the LAST one he'd held, the recruiting job for that little government agency, he couldn't complain too much. 

Unwillingly his mind presented him with the picture of an imperious and barbaric redhead dressed in leather, and the five dangerous men who stood at her side. No, this job mightn't be all that great, but it sure could be worse! At least it was highly unlikely The Dragon would be coming in to buy a new car!


End file.
